


Skateland

by marythefan (marylex)



Category: Backstreet Boys, Eminem (Musician), NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-07
Updated: 2003-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marylex/pseuds/marythefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve guys. Four hours. One skate session. Nothing will be this important again. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skateland

_Time For Kids: Do you remember anything specific about any of your birthdays before you became famous?_

Justin Timberlake: My favorite birthday was my skating birthday. There was a place in my hometown called Skateland. Man, we skated all day.

_7:21 p.m.  
Gonna Make You Sweat (Everybody Dance Now) - C+C Music Factory_

There's a girl in grunge knocking on the plexiglass, and where the hell is Marshall and why isn't he keeping these children under control?

"Do not touch the glass of the DJ booth!" Chris booms through the PA system, and the chick's sidekick jumps and looks around shame-facedly. Grunge Girl is undeterred.

"When are you going to play a couple's skate?" she demands, voice raised above the music.

"What? You manage to find a date for the evening?" Chris asks, adding "Ow!" as Howie flicks him in the head on the way back to the ticket window with another sheaf of singles.

"C'mon, man. Play a couple's skate."

"New policy - no cheesy love songs. You'll thank me when you're old enough to worry about looking cool instead of trendy."

"What if I show you my tits?"

"OK," Chris says agreeably. "Where do you keep 'em?"

The girl flips him off, and that's no way to convince him to play bad Air Supply songs so she can clutch sweaty hands with her squeeze and skate in circles under the disco ball, now is it? Chris waves goodbye at her and grooves across the booth to the adjoining ticket alcove, where Howie's got his Psych 101 textbook open to one side as the steady pubescent stream flows past him, into the darkness, noise and adolescent angst of a Skateland Friday night. Chris isn't sure Howie's even paying attention to the bills he's taking.

"Hey," Chris says, nudging him. "You just gave that kid change for a twenty."

Howie looks at him questioningly, and Chris almost feels bad. Almost.

"He gave you a ten."

"Fuck you, he did not." Howie turns back to the window, unperturbed.

"No, man, he really did."

Howie waves a dismissive hand at him, and Chris wonders when his boyfriend turned into Zen Master Serene and why Chris keeps him around if he's this little fun. Spotting a pair of blond heads - one natural, one suicide - coming through the line, he turns to fresher comedy fields.

"Hey, Fatone!" he yells through the door into the breakroom. "Your fan club is here."

"Shut up, Kirkpatrick." Joey's peeking through the door, scarfing one of his hot dogs before he gets slammed by the first wave of the evening. "He's just a nice guy. And if my fan club's here, so's Howie's."

Chris flips Joey off. Nick's nothing more than a cute kid. OK, not cute. Pretty. Just out of the babyfat stage and into coltish, lanky but without the raw gawkiness of the Bass kid. Lean lines ... Chris cuts off that train of thought with a snap. You can't get much more Lolita jailbait than Nick Carter, and on second thought, Howie needs to stay away from him, because the boy obviously has a thing.

_7:42 p.m  
Two Princes - Spin Doctors_

Nick can just shut up about Joey being too old for Lance and not noticing him. Like Nick doesn't have the biggest, stupidest crush on the ticket guy, and that's just. Ew. That guy is old and graduated from high school and everything. Plus he has a boyfriend.

Two years isn't that big a difference, and it means Joey has his license and can drive, doesn't it?

Lance wants Joey, and he knows he can get what he wants. All he has to do is apply himself. His mother and father taught him that, and it's what's gotten him a spot in the school play even though he's only a freshman, it's what's gotten him at the right table in the cafeteria during his lunch period, it's what's going to get him into space after he graduates and goes to the Air Force Academy. First, though, it's going to get him Joey.

It's all about strategy, and Lance makes sure Joey notices him - that's why he spends so much time hanging out in the snack bar when he's at Skateland. He checks out his reflection in the bathroom mirror and ruffles his hair, combing it back into place as he looks up at himself through his eyelashes.

"Pretty boy like you doesn't need any work." The voice echoes around on the tile, and Lance looks over, eyes narrowed, at AJ McLean, who's leaning against one of those stupid shag-carpeted pillars, trying to look cool in denim and flannel and - of course - smoking a cigarette.

"This is a no-smoking building," Lance tells him and turns back to his reflection.

"Want one?"

Lance studies him in the mirror. AJ doesn't think he'll take him up on the offer, Lance can tell. He pushes off against the wall, rolling over to AJ and holding out his hand. AJ offers him the cigarette he's already smoking, and his fingers brush against Lance's as he hands it over. Lance takes a perfect drag, holding and releasing smoothly. What does AJ think he is, some pussy?

"Sexy," is AJ's evaluation, and he grins at Lance through the smoke.

Lance rolls his eyes. If AJ thinks Lance is going to get mixed up with him so AJ can feel him up and then run around telling everyone Lance gave him a blowjob, like poor Dan Miller, AJ can just think again. Like Lance is going to have anything to do with a guy who tries to pick him up in a bathroom. Plus, AJ may think he's cool, but he's no Joey Fatone. Even if he is kind of cute.

"You here with somebody?" AJ asks, taking the cigarette back.

"Yes."

"Somebody special?"

"I don't see why that's any of your business."

"I was just thinking I could maybe find you for the next couple's skate."

"I don't think so," Lance says loftily. "And I have to get back to my table."

Loser. Hanging around, looking all dark and brooding like one of those bad boys with hearts of gold from the wrong side of the tracks in the movies. Who actually does that?

Nick's holding their table in the snack bar, scraping wax off the side of their soda cup with a fingernail.

"I _know_ you haven't drunk all that Coke," Lance says, sliding into the other side of the booth and looking pointedly at the cup.

"Um. No. Not all of it ..." Nick rattles the ice around. "You just took so long ..."

"I ran into your creepy friend AJ in the bathroom."

"He likes you. And hey! He's not creepy."

"He does not. And he is so creepy."

"He told Brian he did. He doesn't know Brian told me, though. I don't think he was supposed to. Brian, I mean. Tell me. And AJ's not creepy."

"He doesn't even have his license yet. And he is creepy."

"He's got his permit," Nick points out reasonably. "And he's not. He's a nice guy. He lets me go over to his place when my mom's being a psycho."

"Yeah, and that means he still has to have his mom with him when he drives." Lance makes a face at the thought. "And I let you come over to my place when your mom's being a psycho."

"You're such a fucking snob."

"Hi." It's Ashley Angel, bumping into the end of their table as he rolls to a stop. Lance remembers him from junior high. Pretty but not bright. Lance looks across the table at Nick and amends his evaluation. Ashley is pretty but _really_ not bright. Lance already has Ashley tuned out, and he jumps when Nick kicks his foot under the table, skate wheels knocking.

"What?" He arches an eyebrow as he looks at Ashley.

"I wanted. I, um, asked if I could sit here, too."

"There's no space." Lance smiles and adds, "Sorry." He doesn't sound at all apologetic.

"Oh. OK."

Nick kicks Lance again as Ashley wanders off.

"You are so mean, dude. There's plenty of room." Nick's torn between laughter and disapproval. He always makes Lance be the bitch for both of them.

"What? So did you _want_ him to sit with us?"

"No! God, no. But I don't see why you have to be so mean about it."

"I'm already being seen with one eighth-grader. That's my good deed for the day."

_7:51 p.m.  
Eternal Flame - The Bangles_

AJ's perched himself on the counter at the rental skate window, looking pained, when Brian comes back out of the staff room. The girls must have worn Chris down, but the couple's skate doesn't seem to have turned out the way AJ planned.

"Thanks for the help earlier," Brian says, and AJ shrugs. They've worked out a silent system by now - the evenings Brian shows up to find AJ already waiting outside, he knows the kid doesn't have the money to pay admission. He makes up some story about needing extra help with the initial rush of people demanding skates and brings AJ in early, before Howie's manned the ticket window, and Kevin's even stopped bugging him about it. It keeps AJ off the street and somewhere Brian can keep an eye on him.

"I think maybe I have a bad reputation," AJ finally says.

"I don't give a damn 'bout your reputation," Brian sings in a high voice, standing on his toes to grab AJ and noogie his head. AJ swats at him, then goes back to gloomily picking at the knee of his baggy jeans. He doesn't look near old enough to have a reputation, good or bad, but Brian supposes he knows better.

"Is your name preceding you?" He sprawls across the counter, leaning on an elbow, chin in hand, and looks up at AJ.

"Half of it's not true." AJ glances sideways at Brian.

"Oh no?"

"You know. People make shit up. Think they know all about you."

"You just don't do anything to disabuse them of this notion that you're a player."

AJ shrugs again, and as the silence stretches, Brian knows he's not likely to get anything more out of the kid on _that_ score. Not right now. He scratches at the matted carpet on the window ledge and decides to let AJ in on his news early. He could probably use the lift.

"Know where else your reputation precedes you?" he asks.

AJ continues to pick at his jeans.

"Creative writing."

AJ looks suspicious.

"We want your piece for the lit mag."

"No way!"

"Way."

"Excellent!"

"Most excellent," Brian responds, grinning, and pokes AJ in the ribs, making him collapse to one side.

"You didn't pull any strings, did you?" AJ asks from his heap.

"I'm only the assistant editor, I can't make them if they don't want to," Brian says. "Besides, I didn't have to. If you'd go to any class other than English on a regular basis, your other teachers would love you as much as Mr. Sumner does. And maybe you ought to turn some of those writing skills to loooove poetry. Who could resist you then?"

"Oh, it'd be all dark and dramatic and gloom and doom and _he'd_ be that much less likely to talk to me." AJ looks wistful.

"Oh, yeah, you, you're way too Goth for your own good." Brian swoons on the counter, wrist draped across his forehead. "All lounging around in eye-linered misery. Next thing you know, you'll be done up in lace and velvet. And no teenager has _ever_ thought that was cool." He ruins the tableau by snickering.

"Shut up. I'm serious. I'd think he was scared of me, if he got scared of anything, ever."

"You don't think he's scared of anything, ever," Brian says, raising an eyebrow.

"What's he got to be scared of? He's all ... cute and smart and successful and popular. You know, like you."

"That doesn't mean it's all easy for him, you know." Brian's life is laid out in front of him - University of Kentucky next year, Leighanne with a class ring on her finger, then an engagement ring, then a wedding ring. Good job, nice house. Kids. AJ's Ione Skye-alike sitting over in the snack bar probably has the same sort of path already planned. For AJ's sake - and maybe for Lance's - Brian hopes there's room for a Lloyd Dobler somewhere along the way.

"AJ! Get down from there!"

AJ makes a face in Kevin's direction as he slides off the ledge.

_8:05 p.m.  
Whoomp! There It Is - Tag Team_

Lance is lounging back on the shag-carpeted bench when Justin rolls up to his usual corner and circles with a flourish. Justin can't figure out why anyone comes to Skateland if they're not going to _skate,_ but whatever.

"He's looking over here," Nick is saying. He's grinning.

"He is not," Lance responds. "And stop staring over there at him. Jeez. If you think he's so great, why don't _you_ go out with him?"

"Maybe I would," Nick says. "You know he's hot. But he doesn't want me. He's in looooove with you."

"Who?" Justin asks, looking around over his shoulder.

"Justin!" Lance hisses, sitting up straight. "Stop _looking._ God."

"Jeez, I'm sorry!" Justin says. Trace bumps into him from behind, stumbling, and Justin reaches out to grab the back of his shirt, hauling him back up. "Who're you talking about, anyway?"

"AJ McLean," Nick says. "He's in love with Lance."

"Shut _up,_ he is not!"

"AJ and Lance, sitting in a tree ...." Nick sing-songs. He twirls around on his skates and falls on his butt. Justin rolls his eyes.

"Like this," he says, demonstrating, but Nick isn't paying attention, already arguing with Lance again.

"Why wouldn't you go out with him?"

"Not everyone is an anal freak about skating," Lance says to Justin, who makes a face and thinks Nick would be surprised at the defense if he ever figured out it was about him. "And I wouldn't go out with AJ because he's a loser. I'm not going to have people talking about me the way they talk about Miller, even if it's not true."

"Who?" Justin asks.

"Didn't you hear about Dan Miller?" Nick asks.

"Huh?"

"Rumor is, Miller gave AJ a blowjob in the bathroom at school," Lance says, putting on his best disdainful expression. "It's such bullshit."

"How do you know?" Nick's skeptical.

"Because Dan Miller is a nice boy," Lance says.

"Why'd you say it like that? You're a nice boy," Justin points out and wonders why Nick flops back down on the floor, laughing. He knows Lance is a nice boy. They sing together in the church choir and everything.

"Shyeah." Lance waves a dismissive hand. "Plus, Dan Miller? Couldn't find his own dick with both hands, let alone somebody else's."

"Lance!" Justin's scandalized. Nick's rolling on the floor, and even Trace is giggling.

"If you can't run with the big dogs, Justin, stay under the porch."

"Whoa." Nick sits up. "Could you be more of a redneck?"

"Shut up, Carter." Lance nudges him with a toe stop.

Justin leans back and into Trace, who slings an arm around Justin's waist and hooks his chin over Justin's shoulder to watch what's going on.

"One day you're going to do that without looking and fall back on your ass," Lance tells Justin.

"Huh?" Justin can't figure out what Lance is talking about. Is he still going on about skating? Trace snorts softly beside Justin's ear.

"He will," Lance says, grinning past Justin, talking to Trace, now.

"'S'what you think," Trace says.

Justin can feel himself pouting, the expression that makes his momma poke his lower lip back in with her finger, but he hates being talked past like he's too dumb to know what's going on. Ever since Lance moved up to the high school, he thinks he's so much smarter and cooler than everybody else.

"Oh, come on," Nick's saying. "You're not the least bit interested?"

_"No."_

"He's still looking over here."

"He is not. Is he? No, really. Justin, tell me if he's looking. Wait, no, stop, don't _look_ over there, because he'll _see_ you looking. Don't."

Justin huffs impatiently. This seems like an awful lot of effort. He's not sure why Lance and Nick have to turn something so easy into something so difficult. Of course, he thought Lance liked Joey, so why does he care about AJ, anyway? Trace lays his cheek on Justin's shoulder, and Justin slouches because he knows he's too tall standing up straight for that to be comfortable. He picks at his fingernails impatiently, waiting for Lance to come up with some spectacular plan.

"Well? What do you want me to do?" he asks. "C'mon. The speed skate's coming up."

"Just. Just pretend you're looking at someone behind him or something."

"He's looking." Trace's voice, near Justin's ear, and then Trace turns his face away from the other side of the rink, into the crook of Justin's neck. Justin can feel the smile against his skin.

_8:37 p.m.  
Unbelievable - EMF_

JC's rolling in place, staccato movements back and forth, and bouncing on his wheels as the 18-and-overs line up for the speed skate. Justin's down at the starting line, examining the racers poised for the whistle, and it doesn't seem that long ago that JC taught the kid how to skate backward. Justin won his own heat easy tonight - he'll be old enough to move up to the 13-15 heat in a few months, where he'll maybe get some actual competition. JC just won his heat, too, and passed his winnings - coupon for a free Coke, hardly necessary with C's nacho-and-soda supplier working the snack bar - on to Justin's shadow.

He does a little dance step in place, balancing easily and startling as the whistle blows, and wonders if Joey's right and he should start skating with the 18-and-overs even though his birthday is months away. Joey calls him a huge fucking dork because he still wants to come to Skateland on Friday nights, but he laughs when he says it, and it's never mean. And there are hot chicks (and guys) in tight jeans bending over to tie their skates, so it's not a total loss. JC doesn't understand what's wrong with wanting to skate - it's like flying, soaring with the wind in his face when he closes his eyes down the straightaway. Joey warns him he's going to smack into the wall one day, but JC can feel the boundaries of the rink pressing against his skin without even looking. Sometimes, when the music's right, he feels like his heart is going to come right out of his chest, up through his throat. Which is sort of a gross image, when he stops to think about it, but that's not the way it _feels._

He vibes absently to the music, focusing on the skaters as they flash around the turn, arms and legs pumping, faces intent, leaving behind a breeze that caresses his skin and ruffles his hair in their wake - Jeff Timmons, former football hero; that Nelly kid who used to be JC's only real competition, before his 18th birthday; some English guy, Robbie Somethingorother. JC can feel his cheeks flush and his limbs quiver with the vicarious adrenaline rush, the urge to step back onto the rink floor, poised for flight. Brian's come out from behind the rental skate window and put on some wheels, darting quick and fast at the front of the pack, like the rabbit in front of a group of greyhounds. He'll win, JC thinks, leaning his elbows on top of the carpeted barrier separating the raised floor from his end of the rink. It won't count, because he works here, but he'll win.

JC's so focused he doesn't notice the big man who's come up beside him until he registers the grip on his arm, and the surprise makes him scramble on his wheels, saved from an ignominious fall on his ass by a hand under his elbow and his own clutching grasp at the wall.

"Hey, Mr. P," he says as he regains his balance, and the man slings his arm around JC's shoulders. "What are you doing here?"

"I like to come out and see what my kids are up to when they're not in school," Mr. Pearlman says and gives a hearty laugh. "You having a good time tonight?"

"It's great," JC says, nodding enthusiastically. He gets a pat on the shoulder in response.

"It's good to see you kids out here, somewhere safe and fun, instead of hanging out somewhere with drugs and alcohol."

"Oh, we'd never do something like that." JC makes his eyes big, attempting innocence. Mr. Pearlman is a good guy, he's agreed to write one of JC's letters of recommendation for college, and JC doesn't want him to think JC's not grateful or doesn't take things like that seriously. "It might interfere with schoolwork or something."

Mr. Pearlman looks approving and squeezes JC's shoulder.

"That's the kind of focus that's going to take you places ..."

"You're going to have to leave."

"What?" JC looks in confusion at Marshall, who's walked up to them and is looking at Mr. Pearlman challengingly.

"Is there a problem?" Mr. Pearlman asks.

Marshall points at the "security" stitched on the breast of his jacket. He looks pissed.

"Oh, no, man, it's OK. He's my principal," JC says.

"The rules say, no non-parent spectators. Did you read the rules when you came in?" Marshall asks, crossing his arms and ignoring JC.

"Hey, no, it's cool ..." JC starts again, but Mr. Pearlman gives his shoulder a last squeeze and steps away.

"No, no, we should follow the rules." He smiles at Marshall, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'll see you in school on Monday, JC."

"I can't believe you just did that," JC hisses at Marshall as Mr. Pearlman heads for the door. _"God."_

"If he wants to stay, he can put his fat ass on some skates so he's not a non-parent _spectator,"_ Marshall says with a scowl.

"That's my _principal,_ you asshole. I don't need him pissed off at me. He's helping me out."

"I bet he is."

"What exactly is your problem?" JC asks.

"You're a piece of work, Slim." Marshall gives him a long look, eyes sweeping JC up and down.

"Fuck you, Marshall," JC says, flushing. There's a shivery feeling in his stomach. "Don't think you can pull something like that and then just ..." He waves a hand around in the air, then drops it and brushes past Marshall. Fingers wrap hard around his wrist, yanking him to a halt, and JC's heartbeat ratchets up. He wonders if Marshall can feel it in his fluttering pulse.

"He shouldn't be touching you," Marshall says, low and dangerous, looking up at JC through narrowed eyes.

"People touch me sometimes, Marshall." JC's breath is coming shorter now, and a heavy feeling curls low and warm in his belly. The adrenaline quiver is back.

"Not like that," Marshall makes an abortive movement toward JC before looking around and dropping the wrist he grabbed. "And he's too old to be in here. Like half of you out there on skates."

"You used to skate." JC remembers watching Marshall at the rink, back when he was Justin's age and Marshall wasn't even as old as JC is now. Marshall's skates were racers, and he always won his heat - when he wasn't disqualified for throwing elbows and locking wheels.

"Yeah, well. I'm a grown-up now."

_8:48 p.m.   
Cradle of Love - Billy Idol_

Joey's indulging himself on the turntable, and the steady influx of kids has slowed to a trickle when Howie pokes his head around the corner into the DJ's booth and quirks an eyebrow. Joey nods and waves him away, so Howie pushes change through the slot at the kid on the other side of the ticket window, checks the door to make sure no one's waiting and slips away, leaving Joe to cover for him, too.

Chris is waiting outside, on his own break, when Howie pushes out of the back door. He's leaning against the wall, joint already lit, and Howie grins at him.

"Looking for some action?"

"I dunno," Chris responds. "I'm not sure my boyfriend would appreciate me getting busy with some guy I met in a back alley."

"Ah, come on." Howie sidles up to him and slips a hand under Chris' jacket, around his waist. "I promise I'll show you a good time."

"Yeah?" Chris grins at him.

"Oh yeah." Howie leans up into him and takes a quick nip at Chris' lower lip.

This wasn't in Howie's plan when he came to college. He was a good Catholic boy who'd been saving himself for marriage - a really stupid idea, he's now thinking. Thank God a force for chaos called Chris Kirkpatrick showed up in his stat class and refused to go away. Howie fell and fell hard, and he almost doesn't have time to panic about how completely his world has turned upside-down or how he's going to explain this to his parents, who are expecting a big church wedding and a pack of grandchildren.

Chris' mouth is hot, tastes like smoke and candy, the sugary burn of Pixie Stix on Howie's tongue as he presses in deeper. He grins against Chris' lips, thinking of the kids inside with Pixie Stix peeking out of their pockets. If they knew what a spastic dork their really cool DJ actually was, they'd go ahead and just eat the candy he lobs at them from the booth, instead of displaying it like a status symbol. Howie giggles, and Chris pulls away, raising a gentle hand to touch one upturned corner of his mouth before offering him the joint.

"You laughing at my technique?" Chris asks, mock-offended.

"Face it, Kirkpatrick, you got no play," Howie says disdainfully, leaning back against the wall and taking a drag.

There's a soft chink of metal from the chain looped at Chris' side - he tries to hide his prettiness under layers of outrageous clothes and tough-guy accessories, but Howie gets to strip all that away, and he sees, anyway. He's seen since Chris breezed into their classroom last year and knocked a naive little freshman from Orlando on his ass with his pinup good looks, a miniature Andy Garcia with glamourboy cheekbones and big dark eyes - the prettiest thing Howie'd seen in a long time. He'd already had a feeling this guy was going to be trouble.

Trouble, yeah, like Chris on his knees before Howie can blink, nuzzling into the soft fabric over Howie's stomach, muttering something about "show you no play," and sweet Jesus. The alley's hidden behind the rink, but they're still in public, they're _outside,_ and Howie's instantly hard, as easy as he always is when Hurricane Kirkpatrick hits. He shudders sensuously as Chris' hands smooth up his thighs, palms warm through soft, worn denim, and he shifts, spreading his legs for better balance and to allow better access. Chris' hands move to hold his hips still, fingers rough where they dip under the loose waistband of Howie's jeans and trace random patterns on his skin. The autumn chill hits his exposed belly when Chris pushes up his shirt, and Chris' tongue leaves trails of moisture that cool in the night air as he traces the muscles of Howie's abs, mouth warm on his skin. He squirms against Chris' hands as Chris tongues his navel.

The sound of his zipper is loud in the alleyway, and the fingers of his free hand slip through the silken mass of Chris' hair, clutching briefly as he tries to stop himself from coming as soon as he feels the wet warmth of Chris' mouth.

"Wait," he pants out, his voice high and breathless. "Wait ..."

Trouble, yeah, but the sex is amazing. Howie feels kind of bad about that - he should love Chris as a whole person, and he does, most of the time. But when Chris is doing _that_ with his tongue - Howie gasps again, a small sharp intake of breath, before biting his lower lip to muffle the sound in the crisp air - it's hard to think about anything else.

He pushes back one of the dark wings of hair fallen across Chris' forehead, and Chris looks up at him from under thick lashes. Howie isn't sure how someone can manage to grin like that with a cock in his mouth, but just then Chris swallows, his throat muscles working, and Howie almost brains himself against the brick wall as his head snaps back. He comes so hard, he thinks he's going to black out; it's only Chris' arm around his waist that keeps him from sliding down the wall to the ground. _Jesus Christ,_ he thinks, and it's not blasphemy because it's a prayer - a prayer of thanks that he hadn't managed to ignore Chris long enough for the other man to get tired and go away. Chris has a notoriously short attention span. Where everything except Howie is concerned.

Chris slides back up Howie's body and kisses him, mouth salt and sharp, now. But when Howie pulls him close, slipping a hand down his stomach, he grabs Howie's wrist.

"Don't," he grates out, breath hot against Howie's neck, even as his hips give an involuntary roll, pushing forward into Howie's hand. He pulls in a deep breath and pulls back, taking the joint Howie has somehow managed to keep from snapping in half, then leans in to lick at Howie's lips before taking a drag, grinning again. An anticipatory shiver works its way down Howie's spine. Chris will stay half-hard and expectant through the rest of the night, letting the bass that pumps its way out of his turntables lap its way up his thighs and work itself into his hips. When they get home ... well, Howie knows what to expect. Like Howie, Chris is small but strong, lean muscle built on by hours in the gym, and it's one reason they're so well-matched. They never underestimate each other the way a bigger guy might.

There's a couple of kids leaning against the wall, tangled together, just inside the exit. The two pull apart guiltily when the door snaps shut, but it's obvious from the bruised look of their mouths what's going on. Howie squirms as the blond - Timberlake, he thinks the kid's name is - drags his sleeve across his mouth. He knows they haven't been doing what he and Chris have been doing, can't have been doing any more than kissing - sweet candy-flavored boykisses - and he squirms again, because thinking about that - that's just _wrong._ Chris catches him around the waist, pulling him back to hold him still, and Howie relaxes instinctively into Chris' body.

"Better get back out to the rink," Chris tells the kid and his sidekick. "Marshall will kick your ass if he catches you here."

The blond scoffs - and Howie notices the pair of Pixie Stix poking out of his shirt pocket - but twines his fingers with the other boy's, tugging him toward the rink.

Dark eyes take in Howie before the other kid turns to go, smooth tanned skin and dark hair against his boyfriend's baby blue T-shirt as he puts a hand on the blond's arm and says something in a low voice, something that makes the blond grin. Howie feels like he's looking in a mirror. He sees them week after week, watches as Timberlake darts around like an overgrown puppy, as the other boy waits for the unerring return from each foray. Howie recognizes the pattern, is learning for himself what it's like to be someone's true north, to wait confidently through fitful bouts of energy.

They recognize each other, Howie and this shadowboy, nod to each other in silent kinship.

It terrifies Howie - he's too young to be this married. He doesn't know how a 12-year-old is so complacent about it - or maybe that's why he's so complacent about it. He doesn't understand the implications of being that much in love with your best friend.

_9:10 p.m  
Too Legit To Quit - Hammer_

Joey works the snack bar because he has to have some excuse for being at Skateland every Friday night. He doesn't get why JC insists on coming here now that both of them have a license and every ability to borrow a family car on the weekends, some kind of setup that would let them go to the movies or the mall. If they're going to hang out somewhere, they could at least go to the bowling alley, where they sell beer - not to Joey, of course, but it's the principle of the thing. They sell beer to other people, people who are older or who have better fake IDs, and a place that sells beer has to be cooler than a place that doesn't sell beer.

There are other reasons Joey doesn't think they should be hanging out at Skateland, but JC won't listen to him about that, either. That doesn't mean Joey stops trying.

"He's _married,_ C," he says and peevishly pulls the joint away when JC reaches for it. He had to take a lot of shit from Chris while trying to bum a little bit of weed - "Jesus Christ, Fatone, what I need, to be caught supplying a teenager" - and if JC's going to be flirting or ... whatever ... with the real supplier, he could at least pull his skinny-ass weight in the procurement department.

"Not any more," JC says, slugging Joey in the shoulder. "And she's a bitch, anyway."

Joey reluctantly hands over the joint, admitting to himself that he doesn't need to be putting any procurement ideas into JC's head when Marshall might suggest taking payment out in trade, or something.

"So that makes it right?" he asks as JC inhales, and now Joey's tapping his fingers against the shelves in time to the muffled bass beat from the rink, plastic bags crinkling as he brushes against the nachos. "And that's just what he says, anyway. They've got a _kid,_ C."

"You can't tell anybody, Joe." JC's eyes are big, pupils dilated from the weed and the dim light in the closet.

Joey thinks telling someone is exactly what he should do, telling someone like Chris, who'd kick Marshall's ass for fucking with JC. Or Kevin, who'd fire him for fucking with one of the customers. Joey can imagine just how their manager would react if he found out Marshall had something going on with a teenager who comes to Skateland every weekend.

And maybe if Marshall gets fired from his security job, it'll also mean they can stop hanging out at Skateland. Because Joey doesn't believe for a minute that it's just about the skating.

"Please, you can't tell anybody," JC says again, and Joey looks at him, hard, before dropping his eyes to look at the floor. He's going to give in to him, he always does, the same way he gave in to JC's plans every week and kept coming to Skateland long past the point when it was still remotely cool, to the point when he got a job so he has an excuse to be there with his best friend, spending his break smoking in a supply closet while dance music leaks through the walls and JC jitters beside him, constant, confined energy on wheels.

"He's a _fucker,_ man." Joey spits the words out. "He doesn't treat you right. He won't even be seen with you in public, for fuck's sake."

"He's, like, misunderstood," JC says earnestly, and Joey wants to groan. He's seen "misunderstood" before - Janine has brought it home more than once, and Joey thinks he understands it perfectly by now. But he sighs instead, an appropriately world-weary sound, he thinks, and takes the proffered joint from JC's extended fingers. He almost chokes on the smoke when someone pounds on the door as he inhales.

"Fatone!" Kevin's voice, clear against the muffled music from the speakers out on the floor. "Why is no one working the counter?"

_9:36 p.m  
Jump - Kris Kross_

Fucking Fatone. At least Kirkpatrick and Dorough go outside to smoke up.

Kevin shakes his head and shuffles around in the napkins, cassette tapes, notepads - somebody's been scribbling down music again - and miniature action figures surrounding the cash register, finally finding the pencil he came to the snack bar to steal. He makes a mental note to get more pencils at the office supply store sometime next week, thinks better of it and jots a note to himself on one of the napkins.

"How many times I gotta tell you - get Howie or somebody to cover if you're going to take a break," he tells Joey, who's trying not to cough or look guilty. "And tell C he can stop hiding and come out. I already know he's in there."

He's halfway back to the office when he sees the shoving start, and he looks longingly toward the door. Even the budget has to be better than dealing with teenaged machismo.

"Hey," he says, grabbing one kid - he's started calling himself "Cone," but his real name's Jason or something, Kevin thinks - by the shoulder. "Come on, man. You start that, and I'll have to make you leave."

"He started it," the kid says.

"I don't care who started it. I'm finishing it. Both of you stay on different sides of the rink, or I'll have to call your mothers and have them pick you up early." Kevin shakes his head at Marshall, who's looking eager to get in on the conversation.

"Fascist," one of the kids mutters as he turns away.

Kevin never expected to become Kevin The Manager, but he has, so he accepts it. Next year, he'll probably be a different Kevin - Kevin The Grad Student if he and Kristin can make it work on their budget, or Kevin The Community Theater Director With A Day Job At The Used-Book Store if they can't, or Kevin the Pilot if things go amazingly well, because the Bass kid isn't the only one with dreams of flying. But wherever he is at the time, he figures it's best to be comfortable in his own skin and to try not to sweat the day-to-day stuff.

He manages to get into the office, shut the door to muffle the music and halfway sit down before Brian sticks his head in.

"Howie needs you at the door," Brian says.

Kevin studies his pencil. He'd only have to dig out the sharpener anyway. He tosses it on the desk and follows Brian back out.

"Don't drink that outside of the snack bar," he tells the Knowles girl as they pass her and her friends sharing a soda.

"Look out, it's The Man," Brian says, snickering and clearing a path for him. Kevin cuffs him in the back of the head.

Howie's arguing with the Underwood boy when Kevin gets to the door.

"Once you leave, you're gone, dude," he tells the kid, who scowls at him.

"That's bullshit, man, I paid for the whole session …"

"If you leave, you can't come back in," Kevin breaks in. "Those are the rules."

"That's fucked-_up,"_ Underwood says, pissed off, and Kevin shrugs.

"Those're the rules. You knew it when you paid, man."

On his way back in, he notices the Angel kid leaning against the wall by the DJ booth, looking morose.

"What's wrong with him?" Kevin asks, sticking his head in the booth on his way to the office.

"Chandler and McNamara over there never let him sit with them," Chris responds, rolling his eyes.

Brian cracks up in the background.

Pubescent heartbreak. Jesus. Kevin sends up a thankful prayer that he'll never be that young again. There's movement by his elbow, and he turns around.

"Cleanup on Aisle 10," Howie tells him. "Somebody just threw up in the little girl's room."

"It's completely _gross,"_ says the moppet - what's her name? Brittany? Britney, that was it - standing next to Howie.

"Can you do something about that?" he asks Howie. The ticket window shuts down at 9:30 - no one allowed in after that, because God knows what they'll have gotten into at that point - and Howie usually helps out as a floor guard, but he's technically a floater 'til close.

"I have to. Help. Joey in the snack bar. Um. Sorry." Howie takes off, the little fucker.

Kevin sighs.

"All right. I'll take care of it," he says to the moppet. To the air, because she's already gone.

"It's all right, cuz," Brian says. "I'll get it."

"Thank you. You can … wait a minute. Chris, turn that music off. Alecia Moore!" Kevin makes his tone as threatening as possible as he booms over the PA system. "Take the gum _out_ of your mouth, or the music doesn't go back on."

There's a collective groan from the rink floor.

"No gum on the floor!"

_9:59 p.m.  
How Do You Talk To An Angel - Jamie Walters_

AJ only catches the tail end of it, but it's as fierce as you'd expect a blond, pretty, popular catfight to be.

"Dude, he's just being nice," Nick's saying. "Just because he remembered your name when he gave you your nachos doesn't mean anything. I mean, Kevin-the-manager can remember everybody's name to yell at them about chewing gum out on the floor. He's not, like, interested."

"What do you know about it, anyway?" Lance's eyes are narrowed. AJ drifts a little closer.

"He was making out with some chick in the supply closet last week." Nick sounds exasperated. "He's not interested. That's all I'm sayin'."

"And you're such a great judge. That's why you've got that stupid thing for the ticket guy."

"Shut up."

"Why not just hit on Kevin-the-manager? He's even older. And he's all, like, _married,_ not just grown-up and smart with a hot boyfriend. That should be even more of a challenge for you."

"You're a bitch." Nick's voice is bitter.

"Yeah, well, you're a loser." Lance's is angry.

"Fuck you."

"Fuck off."

"Maybe I will." Their table shakes as Nick bumps against the corner in his clumsy haste to get up.

"Maybe you should."

"Fuck you."

"You already said that!" Lance yells after him.

Nick brushes by AJ on his way out of the snack bar. For a minute AJ thinks he's getting ready to cry, but then he realizes Nick's just mad.

"Hey, you OK?" he asks, putting a hand on Nick's arm.

"Leave me alone." Nick stops, his back to AJ. "Can I get a ride home with you? I just lost mine."

"Sure, man, I can get you home."

Nick nods and skates off to sulk, while AJ rolls over to the table where Lance is still sitting, staring at his hands clenched together on the formica. Clearly, AJ is no judge of character because he expected Lance to be the angry one, but the queen bee is sitting there looking like he's the one about to cry.

"Hey," AJ says, climbing up to sit on the back of the booth and shuffling his skates around in the seat across from Lance, wiggling his toes in the extra space inside the boots. Stupid fucking rentals. He needs a half-size, but they only come in full-sizes, and one day AJ's going to save enough money to buy his own pair so they actually fit. "Nick looked upset."

"I don't care." Lance is still staring at his hands, and AJ leans forward, elbows on knees, trying to catch his eye.

"AJ! Get down from there!" AJ rolls his eyes at Kevin's voice and slides down until his ass is planted properly in the seat.

"What'd you fight about?" he asks Lance.

"He just. God! I don't know why he has to be such a bitch," Lance says. He looks surprised at himself, but AJ supposes it had to come out sometime. Might as well be to AJ, who's hardly in a position to hold anything over Lance's head. "Why does he have to be so down on something I want so much? He can't be a little bit supportive or something, instead of stomping all over my dreams?"

He's looking up at AJ now, all spun-sugar and bubblegum cotton-candy, big green eyes and hurt, and Jesus. AJ is some stupid motherfucker, because all he wants to do is make it better for Bass, who's already got more going for him than AJ will ever manage.

"Maybe he just wants you to dream different dreams," AJ says, sliding his hands across the table top so his fingers are almost, not-quite touching Lance's.

"Oh, you're so _deep,_ McLean."

AJ shrugs and slides out of the booth, holding out a hand.

"You want a smoke?"

Clearly, AJ is one stupid motherfucker. He thinks he's in love.

_10:13 p.m.  
Don't Ride the White Horse - Laid Back_

Marshall's going to hell.

It's no surprise - he's already going to hell for so many things, this is a drop in the bucket

This is just the first time he thinks he might deserve it. It's an uncomfortable feeling.

Not uncomfortable enough to make him stop.

He should stop, he knows he should, but then the kid makes those soft, pleased little sounds in the back of his throat or those high, breathy, needy noises, looking up at Marshall with huge blue eyes. Marshall has to close his own eyes then, because the boy doesn't even look old enough to be in high school in those moments, and there are words for people like Marshall. Pervert, for one. That's what he must be, to be fucking a 17-year-old boy who's actually the world's tallest 5-year-old. But just when he's about to break things off, the kid will look at him with predatory, heavy-lidded eyes and in those moments he'll be adult, hungry, hot. It's obvious the boy wants it. And isn't that what all child molesters say?

Marshall wonders if it'll be that hot in hell.

The kid's name is Joshua. He's called JC, he told Marshall - as if Marshall gave a shit - rambling happily as Marshall did his best to tune him out, leaning against the wall and scanning for signs of trouble from any of the brats hanging out at the rink. When his family moved to town, there'd been another kid named Josh in his second-grade class, a kid who'd been there since kindergarten and had first claim on the name.

_"I_ don't have another Joshua," Marshall had told him, contrary, and a quick glance over had shown him the kid's blush and his small pleased smile at the ground. Marshall usually calls him "Slim" though, because anyone who hears it in Marshall's deprecating tones isn't likely to think anything about it, and because the boy is - slim and supple and graceful when he lets himself be, when he forgets to be uptight and nervous and fuckin' _spastic_ and lets himself melt into Marshall the way he's doing now, one long leg twined around Marshall's, heavy with the weight of the skates he's wearing, as he leans back against the pinball machine where Marshall has him pinned, where he spotted him on a round through the game area, hips moving to the beat as he shuffled on his wheels, twisting to the music and singing under his breath.

He's still singing, a different tune now, one filled with broken breath and low murmurs that might be Marshall's name, still twisting as Marshall's hand fumbles with the flannel button-down tied around his waist and pushes up under his T-shirt to touch the soft skin underneath, flesh Marshall curls his fingers into, driven by atavistic need to leave his prints on the body that presses against him. His hips keep moving as he arches, fierce and frantic, sharp and angular enough to leave his own bruise marks on Marshall, and his hair slides silken through Marshall's hand, catching on callused fingertips as Marshall cups his head, muffles the splintered sounds falling from him, slicking his tongue over the rough spot where the kid's bitten into his lip.

The boy's wide-open now, begging, and Marshall wants to break him apart. He should stop, but he's not about to, not when he can have this after too much time spent sucking it up, shuffling and nodding like a good little boy, 60 hours a week slinging slop in the kitchen at the Family House Restaurant and weekends working security in the skate rink, supporting a baby girl barely old enough to walk and wife who already walked right on out on him, a little brother who spends more time at Marshall's anyway, sleeping on the couch to try to get away from their psychotic bitch mother. Marshall wants this, the heat and breath and hard need of it, like a fucking hit of the best shit ever, slammed straight to his cock as the kid fumbles with Marshall's zipper, lips moving against Marshall's in whispered pleas.

They both freeze when they hear the voices.

_10:28 p.m.  
Love Shack - The B-52s_

Trace is not that great a skater. He's clumsy, and he has a tendency to lose his balance and flail around, and he's constantly tripping over his toe stops. He'd be just as happy renting a movie on Friday nights, or watching a game on TV, sprawling out on the couch with Justin and some popcorn, but Justin wants to come to Skateland.

That's fine with Trace. He really doesn't care, as long as he gets to be with Justin, who seems most days like the other half of Trace. When he turns around, Justin is there; when Justin starts a sentence, Trace knows how to finish it; when Justin grabs his hand to pull him along, their fingers lock together like pieces of a puzzle. Justin and Trace were made for each other, Trace has known that with a bone-deep surety, probably since he came out of the womb. And when you're with the other half of yourself, it doesn't really matter where you are.

He's Justin's shadow, he disappears in Justin's shadow, and it doesn't bother him, because you can learn a lot when people don't pay attention to you and forget you're there. So he's not surprised or bothered that JC and that security guy don't notice him in a dark corner of the game area where Trace has his legs crossed yoga-style, skates on his knees, waiting for Justin to come back from the bathroom. He is bothered by that guy touching JC, even more bothered that JC seems to like it, because Trace has always liked JC, who notices Trace quietly, without making a big deal out of it, and passes on his coupons for free Cokes and talks to Trace about clothes, now that he's over his surprise that a guy who talks a lot about bikes with Justin also has some interest in how other people look. A guy that nice shouldn't be with somebody like that, and even though Trace knows people think the same thing when they look at him and Justin, because of the way Trace looks on the outside, he knows that what's on the inside is what matters, and he's nothing like this guy inside, this guy who only cares about what he's getting, not about what he's giving.

So he's frozen still, cold except for the burn in his cheeks, with a squirmy lump in the pit of his stomach, as the security guy touches JC and JC murmurs in response, a low hum, and he's really, really glad they slip away, trying not to be seen, when loud voices approach.

It's arguing, so of course it's Lance and AJ.

"Admit it - how can you resist me?" AJ is asking, skating backward and mugging for his audience of one.

"Because why wouldn't I like a guy whose career track includes hanging out behind the gym and toking up?"

"I suppose serving nachos is a stellar job option." AJ sits on the edge of the foosball table, watching Lance, arms crossed, roll desultorily forward then back, closer then away.

"At least some people are getting a paycheck."

"I'll get a job when I'm old enough to drive myself there. Jesus." AJ latches on to Lance's waistband, hooking his fingers inside to pull Lance closer between his spread thighs. Lance squirms and grabs the offending hand, laughing despite himself.

"Stop it," he says as AJ pokes him in the belly, and Trace watches the sinuous dance as AJ twists and grabs and Lance dips and shoves, all movement in their arms and hands but power focused from their straining hips. They end with AJ's fingers clapsed around the delicate span of Lance's wrist, holding Lance's left hand out and away from their bodies in stalemate while AJ slips his other hand around Lance's waist to pull him even closer and Lance's free hand falls on AJ's shoulder for balance.

_They're dancing_ Trace thinks, and he's leaning forward now, curious about the outcome as AJ's fingers open and skim across Lance's knuckles, barely touching, the way Trace's fingers are sometimes on Justin's cheek because Justin might be taller, but he's still breakable - _fragile,_ Trace remembers the vocabulary word – in a way Trace is sure he, himself, is not. He's not sure Lance is, either, and he thinks maybe AJ is the one who needs someone to touch him that way. He doesn't know if Lance is the guy who can do that - Lance is kind of a bitch - but he knows that if Lance decides AJ belongs to him, it's going to be pretty funny to watch what happens to anybody who hurts AJ. Maybe that will be enough.

Lance is telling AJ that he doesn't kiss guys who smoke, and Trace smiles because AJ has leaned up and kissed him. And then Trace smiles again because Lance's feet suddenly go out from under him and he scrambles and lands on his ass, pulling AJ down with him, and it's nice to know that Trace isn't the only one who's clumsy.

"Ow, fucker," AJ says. "I thought you could skate, Bass."

"I thought I told you I don't kiss guys who smoke, McLean."

AJ leans in again, but Trace looks away from them because there's the quiet shusssh of wheels, and then Justin's there.

_10:41 p.m.   
Open Arms - Journey_

Nobody will ever love Nick, especially not the way everybody loves Lance. Brian tells him there's someone out there for everyone, but Nick's someone has probably already died, in a car crash, or something. He's going to be alone for the rest of his life - especially now that he's never speaking to Lance again. Nobody ever really liked Nick anyway, he's sure of it. They were just hanging around him because they really wanted to be around his best friend.

Ex-best friend.

He sniffles and crosses his arms over his chest, drawing up his knees. He's just going to sit here in the corner, alone and lonely, for the rest of the night, and no one will even notice, probably.

"Aren't you going to skate? I thought you liked this song." Brian's hanging over the edge of the rental skate window, looking down at him.

"Don't got nobody to skate with," Nick says.

"AJ said you needed a ride home?"

Nick nods and sniffles again.

"What happened to Lance?" Brian hoists himself up on the window ledge and swings his legs around to dangle beside Nick. Nick's pretty sure AJ gets yelled at for that kind of thing.

"He's an asshole. I'm never talking to him again."

"That'll show him."

_Sniff._

"You are a sad, sorry specimen, boy. Go wash your face, and I'll buy you a slushee. A grape one, even."

"I'm not 7 anymore. You don't still have to babysit me."

"You don't want a slushee?"

"I didn't say that."

"Go wash your face."

Lance is in the bathroom.

Nick studies himself in the mirror. He concentrates on his hands under the faucet.

"OK, will you stop washing your hands?" Lance finally says. "You look like Justin with the lather, rinse, repeat."

Nick snorts, swallowing a laugh. It pisses him off more. Stupid Lance is an asshole who won't even let Nick stay mad at him.

"So, AJ." Lance says.

"I _told_ you he liked you," Nick says, flicking Lance a brief look in the mirror before dropping his eyes to his hands again. Lance never gives him any credit, but Nick's not dumb about _everything._

"Yeah, so. You're right about some stuff. Sometimes." Lance looks at the floor. He's sort of pink.

"Like I was right about your hair," Nick says and reaches out to tug at the bleached, spiky mess.

"Stop that." Lance smacks at his hand. "It took me a long time to get that right."

"And you have to look good for AJ, right?" Nick laughs. "You so like him."

"Shut up. I do not."

"Do."

"Not."

"Do."

"No way"

"Way," Nick says. He grins.

_11:22 p.m.  
I Touch Myself - Divinyls_

As soon as Brian stuffs the last pair of laces into the last skate boots and turns over the last pair of sneakers to their owner, he herds out the stragglers, and Chris flips the music back on, singing - with great drama and flair, if he says so, himself - to Howie as he comes back to the booth from dust-mopping the rink floor. Howie giggles and bumps him with a hip, which gives Chris a convenient place to grab in order to haul Howie back against him as he continues his serenade.

"Shut _up,_ Kirkpatrick!" Joey's leaning on his mop.

"Fuck off, Fatone," Chris responds cheerfully. "I'm not singing to _you._ You don't wanna know what I do to myself when I think of _you."_

"You're right, I don't," Joey yells back over a sleepy giggle from JC, who's sitting on the snack bar counter, waiting for his ride to finish up. He's languid and heavy-eyed, leaning on one elbow on the cash register, and there's something going on there that Chris can't quite put his finger on. He studies C over Howie's shoulder for a minute before the sway of Howie's hips distracts him.

"Go home," Kevin says, making his last round of the rink to be sure every little thing is in place.

Chris threads his fingers through Howie's and pulls him outside, where Brian's yelling for AJ to get over here and in the car if he wants a ride. AJ's too busy leaning into Lance, who's fetched up charmingly against the side of his sister's car as she whispers and giggles to her boyfriend. The feet sticking out of the open back window must be Nick.

"Dude! Your boy stole Joey's boy," Chris says, leaping and attaching himself to Brian's back, arms around his neck. Brian, to his credit, only staggers a little bit before sniffling and pretending to wipe away a tear.

"They grow up so fast." He flips Chris over and puts him in a headlock, immune to the indignant squawks.

"Hey, man, can I have him back?" Howie's looking a little too casual about this attack on Chris' person. "I've got plans for him."

"Got a dollar?" Brian asks, and Chris mutters imprecations as Howie searches through his pockets, finally coming up with a quarter, three dimes, two nickels and a handful of pennies and lint.

"Seventy-five cents?" Howie asks.

Brian holds out a hand, the exchange is made, and Chris is free to maul his boyfriend again.

"Will all of you _go home?"_ Kevin yells as he locks the door.


End file.
